


Bantam

by msdistress



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable, BAMF!John, Fluff, Height!kink, M/M, Prompt Fic, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 12:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/356821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msdistress/pseuds/msdistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is intrigued by John's height.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bantam

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=98348582#t98348582) kink-meme prompt.  
> Unbetaed, non-native, etc.

John is so _tiny_.

It is what makes people underestimate him, of course. He looks so harmless, normal, _mundane_ in his cuddly jumpers and plaid shirts. People look at him and only see the surface, the friendly smile, the easy demeanor. It's all subterfuge, it's the perfect disguise. Nobody sees the steel core, the strength, the true John. It is _fascinating_.

\---

In public Sherlock likes to stand too close to John, to loom over him, snapping at those who'd dare to intrude, who'd dare to smile at him, flirt with him, try to claim him. _"He's mine,"_ Sherlock's body language says. _"Stay away."_ John tolerates it all with a resigned grace, sighing, reproaching him when he thinks Sherlock is too rude. It doesn't matter. What matters is that everyone knows that John is _his_.

When they are on a stakeout late at night, Sherlock likes to pull John against his chest, to wrap his coat around them on the pretense of keeping them both warm. John fits so snugly under his chin, hands wrapped around his waist, his breath warming Sherlock's collarbone. It's like they are two pieces of a puzzle, incomplete on their own but creating the perfect whole together. No matter how often he does it, it always fills his heart with a feeling of marvel. It is a mystery.

\---

John's hands are small, efficient but not fragile. Soldier's hands, surgeon's hands, capable of both killing and healing. Sherlock maps the texture of the skin, studies the secret history, deduces John's past. 

"You got into a fight when you were fourteen," he says. "He was bigger than you. He was the instigator. If it had been about you, you would have just walked away or talked your way out of it, but he was bullying someone, you saw it and decided to step in. You broke the knuckles of your left hand." Sherlock trails small kisses on them. 

"You punched him on the mouth, broke his lateral incisor." There's a small scar that tells Sherlock the angle and the force of the punch. He kisses it before continuing. "You won. He never bothered you or his victim again. Your mother was livid, your father secretly proud." 

John smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, amused, amazed.

"It was the first time I got into a real fight," he admits. ”It was against the class bully. He was messing with my best mate, Tim. I got grounded for a month but he never bothered Tim again. It was worth it." 

Then his eyes soften. 

"That was brilliant. _You_ are brilliant. Absolutely amazing." 

John's voice is earnest, his eyes are very blue. Sherlock still hasn't determined the exact shade, as the colour changes depending on the light, the clothes he's wearing, his moods. They are very dark now. Sherlock wants to drown in them.

  


\---

John is writhing underneath him in bed, sweat beading his skin, begging, moaning. 

"Sherlock, please. I can't... I need... Please, Sherlock, fuck me. Please. _Please!_ " 

Sherlock wants to mark John, to cover him in his scent, to suffuse him. Under him John is panting, flushing, wanting, desperate, _perfect._ He is incoherent, beyond words, his eyes closed, his mouth hanging open, gasping, and the sight of his tongue mesmerizes Sherlock. It is small, perfect, pink, like cat's. Sherlock wants to taste it, to lick it, to catalogue it. He invades John's mouth simultaneously as he enters him, swallowing the groan that escapes John's lips, replacing it with his own.

\---

Afterwards Sherlock wraps himself around John, burying his face in John's neck, feeling the sweat cooling on him, cataloguing the texture of John's hair, his scar tissue, his skin. John is pliant, relaxed, and when Sherlock tugs him, he obediently snuggles closer, settling against Sherlock's chest. 

"I never would have guessed how cuddly you are," he complains, but his tone is amused, fond. 

"You love it," Sherlock counters. "I can tell. It's _obvious_." 

John snorts, amused despite himself. "You're so full of yourself, you big idiot," he yawns. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock smiles into John's hair. Before sleep claims him, he whispers into it: 

_"Mine."_


End file.
